


Never To Heaven Go

by Shiggityshwa



Series: Watch the Birdie [7]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Cameron POV, Dark fic, Episode: s10e13 The Road Not Taken, F/M, Kinda canon compliant, Mentions of Suicide, Speculation, Stranded, Vala POV, dark au, pre-"The Road Not Taken", rewriting season 9 to fit an alternate universe, uses set universe from The Road Not Taken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24332122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiggityshwa/pseuds/Shiggityshwa
Summary: An imagined retelling of Season 9 and 10 in the 'Road Not Taken' universe. Seventh in an ongoing series detailing what happened in the The Road Not Taken universe before Sam's arrival. Focuses Cameron's fall from grace and Vala's incarceration at Area 51. This story deals specifically with the transportation through the supergate and indoctrination into Ver Isca.
Relationships: Vala Mal Doran/Cameron Mitchell
Series: Watch the Birdie [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1183454
Kudos: 5





	1. Sermons in Stones

Wakes up face down on the ground, the smell of wet dirt spiking his nostrils, reminding him of fishing trips with his brother and old man when they were younger, before his dad’s plane got shot down over unfriendly territory and his legs became pretty much just decorations.

Sure, his old man tried for a few years, for him, his brother, and his mom—but he’s been there firsthand. Knows what it’s like to be stuck in a body that doesn’t work like it should, like it used to. Going from running five miles in the morning to not being be able to walk to the goddamn toilet without help.

Always thought his dad was strong, but after he intentionally ate a bullet in their back barn, he didn’t think so anymore.

They still labelled his old man a war hero, a veteran, someone who died in the name of the country, despite his dad’s only enemy being himself.

Then he had his accident, and he thought his dad was a superhero for lasting as long as he did, because each day is a nightmare.

Wiggles his toes this time because he actually remembers to do it and smiles into a mound of wet dirt when those piggies dance. Blinks a few times, spitting some bigger pieces of dry leaves and bark from his lips, and tries to get a handle on where he is, which is obviously a forest.

There’s sun warming his back through his BDU jacket—a loaner from SG-1—and when he presses up on his elbows, finding just a weak, general ache throughout his body, telling him all his bones are intact and unbroken for once in his life, he turns over, taking in the bright beam falling through the spread branches of a big old tree.

The weather is good, he’s not burning up, the jacket’s not making him too hot, and soil sticks to his pants when he stands, stooping to dust off the dirt, and squinting his eyes, scanning the trees.

Everything is really calm.

But all he remembers is the panicking disarray. 

He was in a ship—not the _Odyssey_ throwing up one second and sleeping beside her the next—it was an alien ship.

An Al’kesh?

She knows how to fly them.

That’s right, he tagged along after her, after she slipped away from where Lorne and Jackson were arguing about the—fuck!

Trickles back—them being open fired on, and her cracking her head right off the control panel.

He knows how much that hurts—he’s been there too.

The ship was being throw into a corkscrew from her body falling unconscious over what he assumes was the steering column, and despite his pleas, as he crouched beside her and tried to rouse her, she didn’t answer, and blood started to ribbon over her face.

He hauled her up, held her in his arms like he did sometimes when they were playing—fooling around—listening to her laugh, squeal, because they were both unhappy for so long, in pain for so long, and her laugh was lyrical—automatic music.

Kept talking to her, telling her it was going to be fine, even though he didn’t know what the hell he was doing with the ring panels. He collected her to one side, freeing a hand, trying to keep himself and her stable while the ship kept spinning, and the _Odyssey_ kept firing. Finally, just slammed his hand into the same button he did last time to transport to the last entered coordinates and jumped in the rings with her just as whatever the supergate materialized.

It’s weird, but he can still sort of feel the ship ripping apart.

Then he thinks that’s why he can’t find her, because maybe, God willing, she made it out and he—Everything does smell a little different here, he can see everything clearer, hear the sticks snap under his footsteps as he tries to find any sign of her, any tracks, hoping not to.

He was holding her.

Tucked her against him just before they beamed out, shot up his shoulder to protect her, felt the slickness of the blood from her forehead smear on his cheek—

Stops walking and wets the tip of his thumb, the same way he’s seen her do when she needs to flip to the next page of her book. He drags it across his cheek and finds it covered in flaking blood. 

“Fuck!”

Shouts it so loud that the birds twittering in a bush to his left startle and fly away as a group. Probably not the brightest thing to do, but the way she looked up at him, the way she was ready to give everything up to save a planet that’s treated her like shit. The way she was just starting to enjoy her life—

If he’s here with her, he needs to find her.

“Vala?” Calls into the woods, stepping through golden leaves and severed trunks. “Vala?”

Then he hears her over the sound of singing birds and leaves rustling in the wind. The low groan recognizable as the sign that she’s awake. She’s not the best sleeper—sleeps light, sleeps rarely—but every time she wakes in the morning, the same pained, irritated groan escapes her, the sound of someone who could be three times her age. Called her on it, on her senior sounds, and with a defeated sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed while he was already making quick work of ironing out any wrinkles in the fitted sheet with his hand, she answered, “you have no idea how old I am.”

Bolts through the trees, the crunching of his feet drowning out any noises she’s making. He skids to a stop, the soles of his boots slipping over the wet ground under trees still dripping water from a recent rainfall.

“Vala?” Pauses, only hearing the echoing of his own voice.

He limps a bit, the leg that always hurt when he went for a morning jog acting up a bit, but when he focuses more on her, the pain goes away, his exhaustion, his confusion, his fear fades.

Finally, he stumbles out into a small clearing, on what looks like the receiving platform to a ring system. She’s laying facedown across it, almost up on a pedestal, her jacket slipping a bit over her shoulder, and her hair shrouding her face. Doesn’t know why she landed on the platform when he landed in the middle of the forest, just knows he can see by the rise and fall of her chest.

“Vala?”

She doesn’t wake at the sound of his rapid footsteps as he crosses the clearing. Kneeling before her, he starts to collect her hair from her face, but most of it is pasted in place by the open cut on the crown of her head. It’s still oozing a bit of blood, but nothing like in the ship. “Honey, wake up.”

Pillows his hand under her head as she groans the same geriatric groans he loves to hear each morning. Her eyes flutter, opening slightly before wrenching closed. “Cameron?”

“Yeah Baby.” All grins, the relief is palpable and flooding from his smile as he helps her sit up slowly. “It’s me.”

“Are we—” her blood soaked curls lap at the back of his hand as she surveys their surroundings, she places a hand on his knee for stability, and she’s cold—colder than she ever was in Antarctica “—are we dead?”

Hears her question, but can’t answer, because he doesn’t care if they are. She’s here, and she’s with him. That’s worth more than most things he can name.

He cups her cheek, thumb strumming away some of the mud smudged on her skin. All he can manage is, “maybe.”

When her eyes meet his, a warm smile breaks on her lips. She slips an arm around his neck, pulling him towards her, nestling her head beside his. Doesn’t speak, just holds on to him, and he doesn’t know what it means, just that he feels the same way. Let’s himself relax until she starts to shake against him. 

He plucks at the jacket sliding down her arm, bringing it back to her shoulder before breaking their contact to zip it up. “How do you feel?”

“Like my head is caving in.” She bows slightly, so her forehead resting against his chest. “That light hurt my eyes.”

“What light?” Tilts her head up to observe her pupils.

By no means is he an expert in medical care, but he’s taken more than one course on medical treatment in the field. Doesn’t know if she is concussed, but neither of her pupils are blown when he checks them.

“The light when we got here.”

“What?”

“Through the rings—didn’t you see a light?”

“I woke up face down in a mud pile.”

“You poor Darling.” She dusts away dirt at his cheek, making him grin again.

His arms heavy with reluctance, he slips out of her reach. They have to start planning because they don’t know where they are, of if they’re permanently injured. They need to find food, water, see if there’s any civilization near them. If not, start a fire to keep warm, and he can’t help but worry about things that haven’t happened yet.

He stands, dusting off his hand on his pants, before offering it to her. “Can you stand?”

She only nods, placing her hand in his. He can feel the grit between her fingers, the coldness from her body laying against the stone platform for so long. She does manage to get to her feet but has to lean into his shoulder.

“It’s okay.” Let’s her know he can help, can take the brunt of her weight. In the light streaming through the canopy, she looks just as drained as she did after healing him in the hospital room. “I got you.”

As she steps down from the stone slab, her footing collapses and she banks into him, allowing him to hold her up. 

“Cameron—”

Shakes his head against the top of hers, her breath hot against his throat. “Don’t say it.”

She shakes her head back, gulping through her tremors. “It’s stupid to try and drag me along.”

“Who said anything about trying?” Laughs, tries to play off the whole conversation as a joke, but when he takes a step forward, she doesn’t take one with him. Actually, dead weights, making it harder for him to help. “Vala—”

“I can just stay here—”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You can search the surroundings faster—”

“I’m not leaving.”

“It will be—”

“I’m not leaving you!”

Shouts it louder than he means to, but she doesn’t flinch way from him, instead offering him a rueful smile as her hand comes up to caress the side of his face. “I don’t think I can walk for very long, Darling.”

“Then I’ll carry you.”

“Hauling me around this jungle isn’t a good use of energy.”

“It’s my energy, I’ll use it how I want.”

Exhales harshly against his skin, her head becoming heavier and the baby steps they’re taking becoming even smaller, until she’s shuffling. They haven’t even made it out of the clearing yet.

“Cameron, this isn’t plausible.”

He’s the one who stops walking this time, gathering her more against him, ready to snatch her up into his arms and start running through the forest. Waits until she gazes up at him, her eyes half open, but the pupils still reactive in the scattered sunlight.

“Either we both go or neither of us do.” For emphasis, he kisses the top of her head, breathes in her scent masquerading under the smell of moss and air that’s layered on her skin. “You pick.”

As she’s about to answer, a twig snaps in the treeline scattering a few birds and drawing closer.

Instinctively he blocks her, stands with her hands planted flat against his back and one of his hands stretching to offer her support.

Expects to find a deer, or a rabbit, or some other harmless animal that they’re going to have to hunt and eat within the next twenty-four hours. Never expected that another human would stroll through to the clearing. 


	2. The Curse of Marriage

It’s been ten weeks since they were teleported to this new galaxy to a village called Ver Isca which is primitively medieval.

So much so, that it’s frowned upon when married women leave the house without the companionship of their husband even though most of the men spend the day training in the military or building massive vessels.

Knows this because in exchange for the house they were provided and a weekly income that allows them enough to eat, Cameron was conscripted, forced into labor, shooting, ship construction for twelve to fifteen hours a day.

When he comes home dragging a net full of his armor and weaponry, he’s filthy and exhausted. She tries to have dinner ready, to have a bath drawn for him. Luckily, they have the basic amenity of indoor plumbing, but no stove, no television, no radio, and no refrigerator which only decreases the quality of her meals. 

Tried to learn how to bake bread from her neighbors, but the haughty women scorned her as soon as they saw her, equating her and Cameron with outsiders and therefore as distrustful. Finally, Denya, a woman who helps run the pub, was kind enough to teach her some basic recipes.

To say the townsfolk are wary of them is an understatement, and in return they need to be wary of overstepping social cues. Cameron relayed to her on their third day that Dr. Jackson and Major Carter had an altercation which almost evolved into them being burned alive at the stake before they were returned by the destruction of the communication device.

He still holds the same glimmer in his eye as they devour a breakfast made of stale bread and weak tea. He hasn’t complained about her horrible, near inedible, cooking or the house being dirty, or her unwillingness to have sex some nights because she feels so unwell.

Her sickness was present from the moment she opened her eyes in this galaxy.

Nausea, dizziness, the inability to keep food down.

In the wake of the night, she’ll rush to the water closet and vomit. Most of the time Cameron is so tired he doesn’t wake up, which she prefers. She doesn’t want to needlessly scare him.

The illness is probably just her body, which has endured years of endless trauma, trying to adjust to another situation. Maybe the air or the temperature isn’t quite agreeable. Maybe there are small maladies that the villagers have grown accustomed to that are new to her system.

These are the lies she used to tell herself.

*

When they were found in that clearing by a man with a limp, Tomin, who had a gentle voice and a kindness to him, he had smiled at her in the clearing, and noticed her injury, promising he was trustworthy, that he would take them to town.

While walking at her slowed pace, Cameron asked about seeing a doctor, a word Tomin didn’t know. She asked for a healer—a word several of the planets she visited used—and the man stopped, eyeing them carefully, stating that the only ones capable of healing were the Ori.

They’d learned quickly from Tomin that the Ori were unquestionable, and in order to obtain safety their loyalty could be unquestioning.

In town, they were introduced to Seevis, a more abhorring man who acts as the magistrate to the town and controls most of the good and services. He also had a leer about him that she didn’t appreciate. Cameron mentioned he’d noticed it as well as he lay beside her in bed and stroked her hair absently, allowing her to fall asleep.

While recording their information into the town manifest—which included names, ages, special skills, and medical problems, like Tomin’s limp which would keep them from serving the Ori—Seevis glanced up from the large ledger, eyeing her carefully.

“I just need to see your proof of your connubiality.”

Her head was still reeling from bashing it against the console in the ship. Words drifted in and out, and her stomach cramped with unease.

“Our what?” Cameron questioned as he sat beside her in the small space of the back office, his fingers ringing around her wrist refreshing.

“Your old village Prior’s decree of your union.”

Regained some lucidity at this point, interrupting Cameron before he could ask for more clarification. “He wants proof that we’re married.”

“Oh.” He chuckled before turning back to Seevis. “We don’t have that.”

The other man set his writing tool down, crossed his hands patiently, but a threatening tone dripped from his mouth as he spoke. “That document has to be procured before any union ceremony.”

“I’m sorry but—”

“You are joined under the holy watch of the Ori—” if possible, his voice dropped another entire octave “—are you not.”

In response, Cameron brought her hand to his chair, holding it between both of his. “We are married—”

“—however—” she interrupted him with a swiftly fabricated lie “—we left our village in such haste due to the nonbelievers uprising that—”

“Ahh,” Seevis nodded, striking something down on the paper, loving her words. “That’s been happening frequently as of late. It is a blessing from the holy Ori you made it out unscathed.”

“Not entirely.” Cameron brushed her hair back, placing her injury on display.

“Hmm,” Seevis made another strike against her name. “You should be more diligent in caring for your wife.”

Cameron’s entire body tensed. His chivalrous nature apparent even upon their first meeting, she has no doubts in his intentions and abilities to keep her safe.

“My husband was attending military practice and devoting his time to the hallowed Ori. The violent behaviors of the nonbelievers have absolutely no correlation to how good of a husband he is.”

Seevis chuckled, guttural, dating the document with arching eyebrows. “She is clearly a devoted wife. You should keep her while you can.”

The words unsettled both of them. To be an object for sale, for exchange, to be a commodity easily accessible or stolen.

Whatever mirth was left in him washed from Cameron’s face. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

“Then allow me to officially welcome you to Ver Isca. I will show you to your home. Someone will collect you for military duties tomorrow morning.”

“May I plead for my husband to stay with me for a day or two?” Did her best to portray her distress— large, innocent eyes accompanied by quick blinks in order to accumulate tears. “After all that’s happened, I just—I don’t—”

“Say no more.” Seevis waved his hand through the air, tucking the town transcript under his free arm. “I will send someone to collect your husband in two days.”

*

The long days apart are the worst.

He tells her this at night while holding her, stroking his fingers over her body, his voice a half-awake rumble against her skin. Not being able to defend her, that the villagers might see through the lies they’ve concocted, of her illness, the one she doesn’t speak to him about because it is certainly more fuel for a fire neither of them wants to be burned within.

Told her she might have a concussion and to try to be as physically inactive as possible. Helped her into the bath the first night, and it didn’t take much convincing for him to join her in the basin. They washed the mud from each other’s skin, the blood from his hands and her hair, she helped shave what little hair began to grow on his face. When she grew too tired, and the water started to cool. He wrapped her in a large towel and placed her into bed. Periodically woke her during the night asking her questions to gauge her lucidity. Cleaned her wound the next morning, kissing the cloth bandage he made from cutting a piece the bottom of the kitchen apron.

Playing house was fun, exhausting, but fun.

Trying to guess how much he’d like to eat, what she could make with the paltry items available in the cupboards. Working on a new loaf of bread daily and only getting worse. Throwing up what little food she could keep down. Cleaning out the tub of grime after his bath. Falling weak while climbing the stairs before him, his dept hands catching her before she hit the ground. Waking to him constantly doting on her, to him asking around the village what her ailments could be. Cozying up next to him at night and growing hot under the ministrations of his mouth and fingers, rowing atop him or writhing beneath before crying out loudly to envy the neighbors.

Learns to tell time from the sun, how it appears across the floor, and knows when it’s nearing the hearth to expect his immanent arrival.

She is going to tell him tonight.

Should have told him two weeks ago when she discerned from two lapsed cycles but couldn’t bring herself to accept the news. Still cannot. What it means, for her, for him, for them.

Stirs at the hearth as she hears his feet clomp up the front steps, his armor clanking in the netted bag. He enters, dropping it at the door. Sometimes she cleans it, polishes it, mostly she just leaves it there because it doesn’t bother her. His face is red from exertion and the sun, bits of dirt and sweat creating a grime on his face, one she will clean from the tub in an hour.

He exhales loudly once in the front door, leaning against it and rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Long day, Darling.” Approaches him, removing the hand from his face and placing her lips against one cheek, then the other, then tugs down his head to kiss his hairline.

“We gotta get out of here, Baby.” Drops his head to her shoulder, and she pets through his greasy hair, relaxing him, feeling the hot huff of breath slow at her collarbone. He slides the shoulder of her dress down, placing one chaste kiss against her skin. “Even though you look amazing in these dresses, we got to get home.”

Tonight isn’t the night for telling him.

His day has already been rough, full of exertion and training, physically and mentally tolling. She continues to caress a hand through his hair, down over his neck, grinning when he nuzzles against her, his nose brushing the side of her neck. “We will, my Darling.”

“They’re building three more ships, a fleet. We need to find a way to warn Earth at least.”

Doesn’t now how to answer him because she knows the feeling of slaughtering hundreds of innocent people. Knows what it’s like to know of Anubis’s plans and being unable to thwart them. It makes her feel burdened with dread.

So, she changes the subject. Kisses the top of his head. “Why don’t you go sit and have a drink while I draw your bath?”

“You know, you keep spoiling me, and I’m gonna grow used to this treatment when we get back.” Jokes as he taps her bum, allowing her to float away and begin to climb the needless number of stairs.

Wants to tell him that she has no problem keeping up her end of the bargain as long as he continues his, but already knows he will.

Hears him pour from the carafe of water as she turns on the spigot and shoves the stopper in to fill the tub. Then a familiar wave of heat courses over her body. She places a hand to her mouth, running for the water closet, slamming the door conspicuously off the wall, and vomits into the toilet. Her stomach convulses as she continues to throw up her breakfast, what she forced down for lunch, and as she heaves for the third time, one of his hands collect her hair, and the other rubs her back in comfort, in distraction.

Flushes when she’s finished, the back of her hand swiping at her mouth, he helps her stand, strong hands under the itchy material of the dress donated by other wives. Meets the concerned expression on his face, and brushes by him to take a drink of water at the sink. She doesn’t like talking of her weaknesses, of the gunshot that plagued her for a year, of the bash on her head that made it hard for her to stand for a few days.

Since she’s diagnosed herself, she really doesn’t like speaking of her illness.

But Cameron stands behind her, rolling his lips together, his eyes staring at her in the reflection of the mirror. “I asked one of the other soldiers about recent illnesses, and they said there was a horrible stomach flu about three months before we got here—”

“This isn’t that.” Her tone is curt as she washes her hands and then dries them on her dress.

“How do you know?”

“Because I know.” Paces by him again, turning off the faucet to a perfectly warm and filled tub. “Your bath is ready. I’ll heat up the stew.”

“Vala,” sighs at her nonchalant avoidance, but when she continues to walk for the stairs, he reaches forward grabbing her hand. “Vala.”

“What?” Retracts her hand from his rather sharply, out of character for her, for them, in the calmness they have around each other.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“I’m not gonna waste our time by listing everything that’s wrong.” He just accepts the harshness, grins at her, holds her hand again and approaches her. “But technically, I’m your husband. You can talk to me.”

Shakes her head, trying to hide the tremor in her lower lip as she directs her gaze at the sunset shimmering in the cooling tub water.

“Vala, whatever’s wrong, we’ll get through it.”

“Can you promise me that?”

Cups her cheek in his hand and offers her the warm grin again. “It’s one of the only things I can promise you.”

“I’m pregnant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Othello

**Author's Note:**

> Story title borrowed from Shakespeare's Hamlet  
> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's As You Like It.


End file.
